She would need to speak to Lalita and ask her exactly what was happening in the city and in the Empire beyond it. She would bribe the servants who could be bribed, and listen for whispers not intended for her ears. She would arm herself with the knowledge she needed to protect herself and her family.
But first, she’d dance the Rite of Dreaming. That, at least, she refused to sacrifice. She’d hungered for it for far, far too long to give it up now.
Her memories of the last storm to reach the city were vague. She had been nine years old, and her mother had taken her out onto the roof to watch the dreamfire fall. Her mother had lifted her up—she’d been so strong!—and shown her the clouds of lights ghosting across the desert sky.
She’d told Mehr stories about the desert: how it was a special and holy place, the place where the Gods had gone and laid down their bodies for their long rest. In sleep, their dreams were the force that kept the world whole, and shaped the earth’s balance, its many cycles of birth and death, suffering and joy, rise and ruin.
She’d told Mehr what the Amrithi believed: that the dreamfire was their immortal dreams manifest, a sign of their power at work on the land where they slept.When the Gods dream, Mehr, they make and unmake the universe. Dreamfire is the light of their souls—see how beautiful it is, my dove? The dreamfire is pure creation.
Her mother had lowered her down then, and demonstrated the first simple stance in the Rite of Dreaming: hands held aloft, palms cupped together, body bowed and sharp like the arc of a falling star. With her palms cupped against the sky, it had looked as if the dreamfire were pouring into her hands like water.
Her mother had watched Mehr’s delighted awe and smiled.
There, you see, she’d said. Mehr still remembered the huskiness of her mother’s voice, how soft it had been.When you’re grown, we will dance the Rite of Dreaming together. We’ll dance with the Gods, you and I.
And Mehr had looked at the dreamfire, traced it with her hungry eyes, and begun to dream of the moment when she would dance with the dreamfire too, as an Amrithi woman grown. In all the years since, the dream had not faded. Instead it had grown inside her, deepening its roots in her soul.
She would dance the rite as an Amrithi. Just this once. She had earned this, at least. She thought of the way it would feel to lift her arms again and hold dreamfire in her hands. There were no words for how that would feel. Only pure, uncharted emotion, bigger than sky.
In preparation for the storm—and because she clearly needed something to distract herself from the pointless, twisting worry in her chest—Mehr decided to organize everything she would need when the dreamfire finally fell. Apart from her dagger, she kept her few Amrithi possessions in a wooden chest tucked away with the rest of her clothing, where it was unlikely to attract her stepmother’s attention.
Mehr removed the heavy chest from storage on her own, placing it by her divan. Inside the chest, preserved and fragranced by bundles of dried herbs, lay Mehr’s garb for the rites. She lifted each item out reverently.
There was a short, fitted bodice, a fanned skirt, and long lengths of cloth dyed a vibrant indigo that deepened to darkness at the fabric’s edges. Mehr lifted the folded cloth out, then reached carefully for what lay beneath it: small stone flowers, strung on coils of white thread, ready to be wound through her hair, and a faded band of red silk. She held the silk up to the light, admiring the delicate patterns stitched onto its surface in white thread—images of sky and stars, of the heavenly bodies in motion.
The bodice and skirt had been gifts from Lalita. “If you need replacements, you ask me,” Lalita had told her. And Mehr had nodded, understanding, because she could hardly ask her stepmother’s seamstress for help, could she?
The sash and hair ornaments had belonged to her mother. Mehr had found them in her mother’s chambers, in the early days after her mother left, carefully folded and wrapped in linen. She had no proof, but she liked to believe her mother had left them for her, as an apology and a farewell.
She fanned the cloth, the bodice, and the skirt out on her divan. She kept the stones in her palm, tracing the edges of the flowers with her thumb. She felt restless, full of joy and sadness at the same time. It wouldn’t be long until the storm reached Jah Irinah. On that day, she would finally be able to dance the Rite of Dreaming as a grown woman, Amrithi and Ambhan, light in her hands and her heart.
Then Lalita would leave, and Mehr would be alone.
A sound from beyond the bedroom made Mehr snap sharply out of her reverie. She placed the flowers on the divan and stepped out of her room. She found Sara waiting for her, a characteristic look of nervousness on her face.
“Lady Mehr.” The maidservant offered a shaky bow.
“What are you doing here?” Mehr asked.
“Nahira sent me, my lady.”
“Does Arwa need me?”
Sara shook her head quickly.
“Oh no, my lady. Lady Arwa is well. Nahira sent me to … to request a favor.”
Mehr frowned.
“What could Nahira possibly need from me?” she asked.
Sara swallowed, biting her lip. Her reluctance to speak almost radiated off her.
“Go on,” Mehr urged.
“Your blood, my lady.” Sara’s voice was small. “She wants your blood.”
Mehr was stunned into silence. She was saved from responding by Sara, who seemed determined to finish speaking before her courage failed her. She went on hurriedly, tripping over her words. “The dreamfire frightens her, my lady. She knows a storm is coming. But the daiva—there are so many of them out there now, my lady—they frighten her so much more than the dreamfire.” Sara took a deep, steadying breath. “Your blood has kept Lady Arwa safe. Everyone knows nothing creeps into her rooms at night. She sleeps soundly. And Nahira—she is old, my lady, and superstitious, you must understand—Nahira has asked if you will protect her too.”
